


Tangled

by Muriel_Perun



Category: Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Coming Out, Dysfunctional Harry, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Not Spider-Man 3 Compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-19
Updated: 2015-08-19
Packaged: 2018-04-15 14:55:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4610922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Muriel_Perun/pseuds/Muriel_Perun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter has always dreamed of having a relationship with MJ, and now that dream has come true. Then Peter asks Harry to help him finish cleaning up the remnants of Dr. Octavius's fusion ball, and Peter is about to learn something new about himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tangled

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Spider-Man (2002) and Spider-Man 2 (2004) with Tobey Maguire and Kirsten Dunst

To fall in love is to create a religion that has a fallible god.

                        —Jorge Luis Borges

_Since that awful night, one thought continued to pound through Harry’s head: Peter Parker was Spider-man. And as if the revelation had opened a floodgate in his mind, he had been haunted by visions of his father, berating him as he had in life, criticizing, telling him what to do, and finally, with a manic gleam in his eye, revealing that in the hidden garret lay the key to untold power, power that Harry could tap simply by using the drug provided for him in pre-measured doses._

_Since Harry had learned Peter’s secret, something of Norman had inhabited the house, taken up residence in the mirror, troubling Harry’s mind, intangible but full of strength like a spiteful ghost. Cackling laughter oozed down the stairs, gathered in corners to ambush him when he least expected it. His father’s voice grew shrill with scorn, rising to a shriek and dropping to a chilling growl. Norman had a secret, too. And now Harry knew it._

_Something had happened to Norman Osborn that his son couldn’t fathom because he hadn’t wanted to. Now it was clear that his father had been the Green Goblin, and in that persona, had fought Harry’s best friend Peter, as Spider-man. Who had vanquished whom was not in debate, but why Peter had chosen not to tell Harry the truth made Harry furious every time he thought about it. All it would have taken was a few words to set Harry’s mind at rest and perhaps preserve their friendship. Now Harry figured that Peter felt too guilty about what had happened to Norman—and had been too concerned with preserving his secret identity—to reveal the truth to his friend. It made him so angry that sometimes it seemed his anger had an independent existence apart from him. Sometimes Harry couldn’t decide if the voice he heard was out there in the room or inside his head. Sometimes it didn’t matter._

_And, so, one night, almost without realizing it, under the influence of the hateful voice that even too much whiskey couldn’t drown out, Harry had injected himself with the first dose._

****

On nights with no moon Peter went back to the harbor and hung in a web suspended from a crane high over the water. Being up here again, swaying in the freezing wind, he remembered that momentous summer night, so many months ago, when Dr. Octavius went to his watery grave and Mary Jane had discovered who Peter really was.

It was late, and he was lonely here, with the cold wind ruffling his hair and piercing the thin material of his suit. Not far from here, in her Greenwich Village apartment, MJ was waiting for him. It seemed that MJ was always waiting for him, but tonight was different. They had lain in her bed kissing and touching until the inevitable siren had called him from her side. Her sighs of disappointment had been stronger tonight, her tug on his shoulders more insistent.

“Peter, just once—” she began, and stopped.

“Just once, what?” he asked softly. “You know I have to go.” His spider-sense tingled, pulling him towards the window and away. No matter how guilty he felt, how much he knew he disappointed her, he had to follow that call.

“Just once come back afterwards. Come back to me.”

_I have an early class_. The words stuck in his throat. They weren’t even true. “Okay. But it’ll be late. Are you sure you….”

“I’m sure,” she said explosively. “Peter, we have to grow up. It’s time for us to— We can’t go on like this forever.”

What had she meant? Time for them to what? Was she telling him she wanted him to make love to her? Sure, he guessed he wanted to, but was he ready for that kind of commitment, even to MJ? He started thinking about how it would be, how they would kiss and touch as they always did, but this time MJ would touch him _there_ , take him into her hand and then into her body.

Even as he thought about making love for the first time, he wondered why he didn’t have an erection. It felt disloyal; maybe he really wasn’t ready for this. Maybe Peter Parker was ready but Spider-man wasn’t. He rubbed his hand down the front of his suit and started to get hard.

_Man, that hurt._ When he had designed his suit two years before, he hadn’t left room for the possibility that he’d ever have an erection in it. What a dope he’d been back then. What a dope he still was, letting a girl like MJ wait for him while he thought bleak thoughts and stared into New York Harbor.

But still he lingered, watching the agitated water below. Did he see that glow beneath the surface, or imagine it? Was it a reflection of the city lights or a figment of his fearful imagination?

It was real, he knew, however much he wished it weren’t. Soon he would have to tell Harry, but not tonight. Better to go to Harry in the morning as plain Peter Parker. The spider was strong in him at night.

Pulling on his mask, he stirred, crawling to the edge of the web, then letting himself down on a filament to the wreckage of the wharf. The blackened stumps of wood that had supported it still protruded from the water. Moving swiftly, he leapt from pier to pier until he was looking straight down into the eerie green glow filtering up from the murky depths. He strained his eyes, trying to see more clearly, but even as he failed, he knew what it was. The thing created by Dr. Octavius was still down there—the fusion ball, feeding off shipwrecks and scraps of metal from the harbor floor. How long would it stay hidden there before it started to pull the city in after it? Not long—since the last time Peter had looked at it a month ago it had grown. Instead of drowning under the deep water, it was getting bigger.

Mary Jane lay staring at the ceiling, too tired to open her eyes to see what time it was but too wired to sleep. One thing she knew for certain, she had been waiting for Peter for hours.

It was getting absurd, the circle they were caught in. She knew she loved him, and ever since the night when she had found out he was Spider-man, he had admitted to loving her. But, really, nothing had changed except that now Peter had the perfect excuse for being late, for not showing up, and for leaving whenever things got sticky or intense. Spider-man couldn’t be kept from helping people, could he? How would MJ feel if she found that she had prevented him from saving a baby from a burning building just to keep him with her a few more minutes? But more and more often she was feeling as though she was being dangled from a string—or from one of Spider-man’s elastic webs. Why couldn’t she ever have what she wanted? Couldn’t she ask the rest of the world to wait sometimes? She and Peter were overdue for a long talk, and she was determined that tonight would be the night.

Something woke her, and she realized simultaneously that she had been asleep and that a cold blast of wintry air had blown in from the window, to be cut off suddenly by a slender, silhouetted figure who closed the window silently and made his sure-footed way to her side. Peter had come back.

“MJ?” he said softly, pulling off his mask. “Are you awake?”

Sighing, she reached out for him. “Peter, where have you been? It’s late.”

“I know.” He sat down on the edge of the bed and leaned over to kiss her. “I’d better go and let you get some sleep.”

Holding his arms, she felt the pliable fabric of his suit and, under it, the solid shape of his biceps. His face was cold, and he smelled like the outdoors, like dizzying heights and a wild winter’s night. “Stay,” she breathed. “Get in bed with me.”

“Hey, MJ,” he said, caressing her, “I don’t know if that’s—”

“Come on, Peter.” She pulled him down and held him tight around the neck. When they kissed she opened her mouth and teased his lips with her tongue. She felt him jerk with arousal and suddenly he pulled back the covers and climbed in beside her. Through her thin pajamas she felt the shape of his body, although she couldn’t see him in the blackness. Her hands slid easily against the smoothness of his suit. This was Spider-man. Of all the girls in the city who lay dreaming about him in their beds, she had him in bed with her, holding her in his arms.

Just being near Peter excited—and frustrated—her more than anyone else ever had. With Flash she had been wild and irresponsible, and they’d fumbled around in the back of his car a few times, though she hadn’t felt much besides a thrill at the risk of being caught. With Harry, of course, she’d done the thing properly for the first time, lying in a luxurious bed in his family’s penthouse. She and John had done everything except the act, saving themselves for a marriage that had never happened, but that hadn’t prevented him from giving her pleasure with his hands and mouth and showing her how to do the same for him. With Peter, things were different. She got so hot being around him or kissing him, but he never did much to show that he wanted her: he hardly even tried to touch her breasts. His restraint made her feel like a slut when she wanted more than he did. MJ had waited long enough to feel his desire. She ran her hands down his back to grab his ass and he surged against her.

Peter pulled back a little. “Hey, MJ,” he said hoarsely, and his warm breath touched her face. He sounded amused and turned on and a little exasperated. “We can’t do this.”

“Why not?” She ran both hands over his chest and felt the spider shape there. They had never talked about what they wanted, what they planned, or even what the limits were.

“What do you want, Peter? You never tell me what you want. Do you want me?”

He chuckled softly and smoothed back her hair. “Oh, boy. Yeah, of course.”

“Does Spider-man want me too?”

“Come on, MJ, don’t be like that.” She felt him withdraw again.

“He always takes you away from me.” She hated the petulance in her own voice, but she couldn’t help it. Her anger had built up for too long to be suppressed now.

“ _He_ can’t take me anywhere. I _am_ Spider-man. It’s not as if we’re two people. I can’t help what I have to do. I have to use my powers for good, MJ. I thought you understood.”

“I do, but does that mean you can’t be with me?”

“No, of course not. I’m here.”

“Are you really?”

“MJ…” He tilted his forehead against hers and heaved a sigh. His gloved hand found her face and caressed her cheek. “I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t know what the future might bring. Tomorrow I could be killed out there. Who knows what might happen?”

“So you’re just going to hold me off like this? We’ll never be close? I’m just supposed to wait until you get killed and then….” Tears of frustration sprang to her eyes and she turned her face away. “I’m just supposed to forget about having you, just because you’re Spider-man?”

“Aw, MJ, no. Don’t cry.” His hand, stripped of its glove, brushed the tears from her cheek. “Come on, MJ. I love you, but I want to do things right. I have two more years of school, maybe less, and when I get my degree we can get married.”

“You want me to wait two years?” she asked incredulously, her anger stopping the tears.

“We can’t get married while I’m living on student loans.”

“Two years, Peter? And who said I wanted to get married? I have my career to think of. I don’t want to get married now, but I want more than…this.”

Rising to his knees, Peter straddled her body and kissed her forehead and her hair. “MJ, listen to me. I’ll do anything you want. Peter Parker is yours. And Spider-man is all yours, too. Come on, don’t be mad.”

“Then touch me. Make me feel that you want me.” Peter Parker, Spider-man. She had loved them both since the night he had kissed her in that rainy alley, but that night it seemed he had let his passion show because he could hide his identity behind the mask. Now that the mask was lifted, she wanted to feel that passion again.

“I want you too much, MJ,” Peter said, obviously trying to sound romantic. “If I let myself go—” He was saying the right words, but they sounded forced. MJ wondered suddenly whether all he really wanted to do was to kiss her good night and get out on the rooftops again.

“It’s always about control with you, isn’t it, Peter?” she said angrily.

“It’s always about doing what’s right for you,” he countered quickly.

“For me?” she asked, shoving him away from her. “Who gave you the right to decide what’s best for me?” He knelt over her in the dark, and she could barely see him shake his head.

“There’s this thing inside me that makes me different,” he said, his voice a rough whisper. “I’m always hiding it, and I have to, but I’m trying to live my life too. There are things I want for us, Mary Jane, and I’m working for them the only way I know how. I don’t even know what I am, but I know what I have to do.”

“I love you, Peter, and I want you now.”

“I can wait, MJ. We don’t have to rush.”

There he went, missing the point again. This slow dance with Peter had been driving her crazy for months. “But what if _I_ want it, Peter? You’re so pure and so perfect, you make me feel dirty for wanting you. What if I want to make love with you before we’re old or...or dead, or before someone takes you away from me?”

He cupped her face with both hands. “I’ll never leave you for another girl. It’ll never happen. What made you say that?”

“Every girl in New York wants to be with you,” she scoffed.

“But I don’t want to be with them,” said Peter, and she could hear the smile in his voice. “You know the last time I kissed another girl? Do you?”

“No,” she said, stung, “how could I?”

“It was Stacy Hutchins in the third grade. She used to chase me around the playground, remember?”

“Oh, Peter, I’m serious.”

“So am I. But, see, all those girls don’t want me. They want _him_.”

“I thought you and Spider-man were the same person.”

“We are, but they don’t know that. They probably think he’s some big hunk from the comics, some rich guy like Batman, who never has money troubles and doesn’t have to do homework or sneak past his landlord because he can’t pay the rent.” He paused for a moment and she heard him sigh. “Hey, MJ, I didn’t mean to talk about all that stuff. None of that matters when I know I’ve got you on my side.”

“But it seems so easy for you,” she cried, exasperated.

“What seems easy?” He sounded genuinely surprised.

“Leaving me every time there’s a ‘disturbance.’ Not making love to me.”

His hands brushed her shoulders as he bent forward to kiss her face. “No, Mary Jane. Not making love to you is the hardest thing of all.” It was a lovely thing to say—perfect for the moment—but once again she had the feeling that he was playacting, saying what he thought he should say to assuage her fears. She’d never known Peter to be dishonest—why did she have this feeling he was stringing her alone? It made her angrier than ever and determined to call his bluff.

“Well, then let’s make your life a little easier,” she said harshly. Reaching up with her mouth, she kissed him. At first his lips were loose and he started to lean away from her, but when she rubbed her body up against his he bore down hard on her mouth. When he finally lay full length against her, she knew it was going to happen. His erection, contained by the sleek suit, was solid against her thigh. Moving against it, she heard him moan.

“MJ, I have to get out of this suit.”

“Not yet,” she said teasingly, guiding his hand to her chest. “I like it. It feels smooth.” Through the thin cotton pajamas Peter stroked her tentatively, then moved his head down to rub across her chest. She pulled up the thin top and he gasped as his face touched her bare breasts. His body grew tense and focused.

“MJ,” he said in a shattered voice, “I want to make it good for you. Show me what to do.”

“It’s all right, Peter,” she soothed him, “just do what you feel and I’ll help you.” All his power, all his strength, lay in her control. A siren screamed by under the window and was gone as Peter took a nipple between his lips. For the first time, he was completely lost in her, kissing and mouthing her skin with intense concentration. She moved her hands over his head and face, sighing and murmuring encouragement. Her hand slid down his neck to caress his shoulders. Through the suit, she felt his muscles ripple under her hands as he held himself up over her. Spider-man, who had abandoned her so many times, was making love to her.

“Is it all right, MJ?” he asked, kissing her mouth. “Am I doing it right?”

“You’re doing it right,” she whispered, “can’t you tell?”

“Yeah,” he breathed, his voice a little shaky. “God, you’re so beautiful.”

She looked at him, but all she could see was a dark shape. “Can you see me?” she asked, puzzled.

“Yeah, of course. Oh, man, is it too dark for you to see? Do you want the light on?”

His eyes glowed faintly amber when he looked directly at her face. She shuddered at the sight, but it thrilled her too. There was something alien in him, something unique and strange. “No, that’s okay.” She didn’t need to see him. Now she wanted to know him by touch. Her hands ran across his chest, touching the spider shape. Spider-man was in her bed. She pulled him close, felt the heat radiate off his body through the confining suit. “Peter, do you want to take this off now?”

He slipped out of her arms and was back in a second, barely long enough for her to yank her pajama top over her head. He settled back on top of her, breathing in sharply when his bare skin touched hers.

They kissed deeply, leisurely, as if there was no such thing as time, no city around them full of peril and misfortune. Peter kissed her mouth as never before, as if he were reaching down to touch her soul. He breathed deeply through her hair, licked her neck, and mouthed her breasts until she whimpered with desire.

_Peter had felt this way before—as if an outside force was driving him, as if he were just the motive force, not the agent—but only when he was flying through the streets swinging from web to web hot on the trail of some criminal. This was different because MJ was here, under him, her scent surrounding him as he kissed and touched her._

_He wondered if the way he felt was normal. Since the spider bite, he could sense pheromones as animal could, and they always seemed to have an emotional impact on him. But now he couldn’t think, couldn’t reason, couldn’t even move on to the next action he might be expected to take._

_Mary Jane was gasping, moaning, looking up at him as no one had ever looked at him before._

_What did he feel? What did he want? Did MJ really want to go through with this? His body knew what to do but his mind was crushed with doubt. He was so aroused it hurt, but he couldn’t do anything about it._

The blackness in the room gave way to the grey of early dawn. Things took on an outline: the dresser, the bed table, Peter’s tousled hair and square shoulders. And still he seemed content to do what he was doing, moving no further down her body. His erection, barely confined in his briefs, felt painfully hard against her thigh. Mary Jane was frantic with desire, but she wanted him to make the next move. Finally, she couldn’t wait any longer. Taking his head into her hands, she whispered, “Peter, take off my pajama pants.”

“Now?” He blinked at her dazedly.

As an answer she pushed his hands to her waist and loosened the cord for him. They were past all of her inhibitions now. She wanted him, and she no longer hesitated to say so. “Peter, there’s a condom in the drawer.”

Looking apprehensive, Peter got the packet out and opened it, and MJ helped him to put it on, pinching the tip and unrolling it over his length. He was rock hard and gasped when she touched him. She wondered how long he would last inside her.

“Are you okay?” she asked, concerned. “Does it hurt? Did we wait too long?”

“Yeah, I’m okay.” He spoke thickly, as if he couldn’t gather his thoughts. “It’s just that, since the spider…since I changed, I feel things more intensely. I feel everything all over—in my skin, and in my…you know, down there.” Poised over her body, he looked dazed with desire. She looked at him hungrily. He was magnificent with his lean waist and muscled torso, and she wondered again how she had missed it when he had changed overnight from the class victim to a superhero.

“If you want me so much, why don’t you come and get me?” she said, pulling him forward, while her mind screamed, _It’s about time!_

He moved into place, letting her lead him. When she took his erection into her hand he pressed forward awkwardly. His eyes were half closed and his breath came in quick puffs that were almost sighs. And when she guided him inside he cried out, moving in her desperately as if he couldn’t wait any longer, and there was the passion that MJ had been waiting for.

It was wonderful to feel his heat around her and finally inside her. His movements were rough but his voice was tender, a broken whisper saying her name as he lifted her into his arms. When she felt him tremble hard she slid her hand between them to touch herself, crying out as the pleasure flooded through her.

And then Peter buried his face in her neck and moaned as if in pain. He moved more surely now and faster until he shuddered and pressed hard into her, making small keening sounds, then went limp against her body. It was over. MJ suddenly became aware of the sounds of their labored breathing. Peter fell sideways onto the mattress with his arms still around her.

“That was amazing,” he murmured. “You’re amazing.” He gave her a momentary squeeze and brushed his lips against her hair.

MJ lay in the circle of his arms as her thoughts gradually regained their normal rhythm. Though she had dreamed of making love with Spider-man, it seemed that Peter Parker had been in her bed. If Peter had been awkward, he had also been careful and loving and strong. Things would get better as he got more experienced. But MJ also felt a sadness that she hadn’t been prepared for. She had taken Peter’s virginity, and things would be different between them forever. While they had only been exchanging relatively chaste kisses, they had been safe in a sort of suspended innocence. Now they would be thrown into the adult world of responsibility. Would he insist on marrying her? What would happen if a condom failed and she got pregnant? She shifted uncomfortably on Peter’s arm. They were in love and this was what people in love did to be closer, right? They’d work things out.

When she shifted again and pulled on Peter’s arm to show him that she wanted him to move it, she suddenly felt a strange tugging sensation on her back. “Peter, there’s something on me,” she said uneasily, trying to turn around. “It’s sticky.”

His face went from bliss to concern in a second. “Oh, man, wait a minute.” He did something behind her and she had the sensation of a band-aid pulling off her skin.

“Ouch! What is that?”

Peter withdrew his arms from her body and showed her a rolled up white ball of something soft and sticky. “It’s some webbing. I guess when I…I guess it came out of my hands when I wasn’t paying attention.” He looked ashamed. “Usually it doesn’t do that,” he said apologetically. “I’m sorry, MJ. Did it scare you?”

“It’s okay, Peter, really.” She had known that making love with Peter would be different, and it had been. Then why did a shiver run through her at the thought that the hands that caressed her had the ability to shoot out webbing that clung to her like a second skin? It was just the webbing that bothered her, not Peter. Once, going down a narrow path in the park, she had walked through a spider web that settled over her open mouth and made her retch. Aside from that, she had always liked spiders.

Peter awoke and stared for a moment at the midmorning sun shining at MJ’s window, remembering. So this was what it was like to be experienced. He looked over at MJ’s sleeping face. With her alabaster skin and her slightly parted lips she looked innocent and beautiful.

_I’m her lover,_ Peter thought reverently. _She let me make love to her._ He tried to preserve his feeling of wonder from the night before, but as the morning grew later it was fading, pushed away by a thousand other thoughts. The sun didn’t shine any differently than it had the day before, and the Spider-suit, with its heavy weight of responsibilities, lay pooled on the floor, waiting for him to slip back into it. There were a million reasons why they shouldn’t have done what they’d done the night before, no matter how good it felt. MJ was Peter’s best friend—he’d never felt closer to another human being. He hoped that this wouldn’t change things between them.

As the midmorning sun crept closer to them on the carpet, MJ stirred and opened her eyes. Soon Peter would have to leave if he was going to have time to talk to Harry before his afternoon seminar.

“Hey, MJ,” he said softly, and leaned over to kiss her. She hummed in her throat and moved closer to him, and he realized with a feeling of panic that she wanted to make love again. “Hey, I have to go, but I’ll come back tonight, okay?”

She looked at him with wide eyes. “You have to go? Now?”

“Yeah, I’m sorry, but there’s something I have to talk to Harry about, and then I have class.” With the fate of the city in the balance, he had every reason to leave. He wondered why he felt so guilty. He tried to think of a way to tell her what he was worried about without scaring her, but he couldn’t.

“Harry?” she scoffed. “He won’t listen, or he’ll take a swing at you.”

“I’ve been hit by Harry before, and I survived,” Peter said, annoyed by her tone.

“And now that he knows who you are he’ll try to kill you.” MJ was looking at him with an inscrutable expression.

“It doesn’t matter. I have to talk to him.”

She moved closer and put her arms around him. “You could at least say good-bye to me properly,” she coaxed.

He kissed her and she melted against him. When she took his flaccid cock into her hand and rubbed it he started to get aroused. MJ looked into his eyes and smiled to tell him that she felt it there between them, that she wanted him again. For the second time, Peter saw that frank look of desire in MJ’s eyes that had always been so guarded before. It gave him chills, made him want to get away. But at the same time, he could feel his spider-senses screaming with desire as they had the night before. His skin hummed with sensation and his erection was suddenly hard enough to hurt. He had never known that sex could undo him like this, making him helpless and unable to focus on anything else. His senses swam with the scent of sex that filled the room.

This time, MJ pushed his shoulder to roll him onto his back so she could climb on top of him. She straddled him, taking his erection into both hands and caressing it, looking him in the eyes as she did so. He blushed and had trouble meeting her eyes as she moved one of his hands to her sex. Why shouldn’t she be as straightforward about sex as she was about everything else? That’s what he loved about her, wasn’t it? So why did it make him feel so troubled? Maybe they were meant to be friends, not lovers. Maybe Peter had felt so contented with the way things had been because he hadn’t wanted anything more. Maybe….

MJ got a condom out of the drawer and put it on him as she had last night, only this time she straddled him and lowered herself over his cock. He inhaled sharply as her warmth surrounded him. Even through the sheath the feeling was intense enough to make him worry about coming too soon. She smiled at him and bent low to kiss him, and suddenly he was surrounded by her long, red hair, which covered his face and made it hard for him to breathe. He tried to push it away from his nose and mouth, but it clung there insistently.

For a moment, he felt as if he were smothering, and that was all it took to make him lose his erection.

“Peter, what’s wrong?” MJ asked disappointedly.

“Nothing,” he said quickly, hoping he would get hard again in a minute, even as he shrank out of the condom. “I’m sorry. I must be tired or something.”

She shook her head and sank down on the mattress beside him. “You’re just thinking about Harry, aren’t you?” She sighed. “What do you have to tell him? What’s so urgent?”

Peter decided to tell her. Anything not to have to say that he had smothered in her hair. “I was down at the harbor last night.” She looked uneasy, and he immediately regretted having spoken, but now he had to go on. “Yeah, you know, checking things out.”

“What did you see?” She was focused now, putting aside what had happened a moment before.

“That energy ball—the fusion reaction—it’s still there. It’s still burning.”

“Where?” Her voice was very quiet.

“Way down, under the water.”

“Oh my God,” she said slowly. “Peter, that’s horrible.” She kissed his cheek. “Of course you have to go.”

Getting out of bed quickly, she went into the bathroom. She had forgiven him. Peter felt as guilty as if he had lied. Soon she came out and he went in to take a quick shower. When he came out she had made coffee and set out some orange juice and cereal. Peter never had fresh milk or juice at his place because his refrigerator never worked, and even if it did he would never have had time to shop. He wondered what it felt like to have time to buy food, to eat right, or even to make coffee at home. MJ was too good for him. He would never deserve her.

The bus was crowded and Peter had given up his seat to a lady with a child. The lady hadn’t even said thank you, and the child had not stopped making faces at him for twelve city blocks. As always, Peter tried to take to heart what his uncle had always said about doing good deeds. You did them because they were right, not because of the reward.

If Peter had traveled as Spider-man he would have been at Harry’s office by now, but he had decided to leave any reminder of his alter ego behind for this visit. He had even left his suit in MJ’s closet, a request she had granted because that meant he’d have to come over that night.

Peter shifted his backpack to a slightly less painful place on his shoulder. He had a big test coming up in Applied Math in a few days. How was he going to patrol and study and spend the time that he needed to spend with MJ? He wondered again if last night had been a mistake. Suddenly, a moment’s weakness had brought him a new load of anxieties and responsibilities that he didn’t need and didn’t think he could handle. Wasn’t being in love supposed to make you feel light and carefree? Well, that was the myth anyway. For Peter it had lasted about five minutes before reality set in, and now things were even worse. He wanted MJ to come first in his life, but he had other responsibilities. The wonder at having lost his virginity was overshadowed by that ball of energy sustaining itself deep in New York harbor.

The kid stuck his tongue out at Peter one more time and Peter restrained himself from doing the same. Instead, he forced a smile. The mother saw and gave him a dirty look. “Pervert,” she muttered, holding the child closer. Several people heard her and edged away, but that gave Peter the room he needed to squeeze through the crowd to the back door and get off the bus.

Harry’s office was a block down. Peter got there as fast as he could and walked in to face the receptionist, only then realizing that, in his preoccupation, he hadn’t spent much time planning what he was going to say to his old friend.

“I’d like to see Harry Osborn, please,” he said, trying to look as if he deserved to see the great man, trying to forget that he was wearing yesterday’s clothes that hadn’t been all that fresh to begin with and had never been expensive.

“Do you have an appointment?” was the bored response he was expecting.

“Tell him it’s Peter Parker. I’m an old friend.” Peter was just getting ready to walk away and find a discreet route to climb 20 stories to Harry’s office when the bored secretary suddenly sat up a little straighter and ran her finger down a list that Peter couldn’t see.

“Peter Parker, of course. Can you wait five minutes? He’s just finishing up an appointment.”

Harry must have left Peter’s name on a list of people to be admitted immediately. Peter wasn’t sure whether to be encouraged or apprehensive.

When he was finally admitted to the plush, carpeted office that had belonged to Harry’s father, he half expected to see the elder Osborn there. Until his transformation, Norman had acted like a father to him. Harry still remembered how it had felt when Mr. Osborn encouraged him to continue his study of science. But even that memory was tainted—first with Harry’s jealousy and then with the Green Goblin’s snarling face a moment before the hoverboard had driven itself through his body.

Now, stepping onto the deep pile carpet, Peter only saw the back of a grand office chair with a trail of smoke rising from behind it. The smoke made his spider sense trill like mad, but he sensed that Harry was sitting there making him wait, smoking the same brand of cigar his father used to—some kind of pure Havana, not that Peter knew cigars.

He walked up to the desk and waited. It was almost funny how Harry liked to be theatrical. Wasn’t this a scene from some movie or other? Peter smiled, and that’s when Harry chose to turn around.

“Peter Parker, my old friend,” he drawled pretentiously, blowing out smoke. “I’m so glad you’ve found something to be happy about.” Peter was shocked at how gaunt his friend looked. There were new hollows in his face that made him look like his father. And had his eyes always been that shade of green? Watching Peter look at him, Harry chuckled. “Welcome to my parlor, said the fly to the spider. Isn’t that how it goes?”

“It’s the other way around,” Peter said automatically.

Harry smashed the cigar butt down into a massive crystal ashtray and ground it hard until it was extinguished. “I wouldn’t be so sure.”

He stood and walked up to Peter slowly. “How’s our friend the bug?” he asked innocently. “Do you see him often? Every morning when you shave?”

“Harry…” Peter had been afraid of this. In fact, he wondered whether Harry would decide to use the most powerful weapon he possessed against Peter—his secret identity. Maybe the question was not whether, but when.

“What?” They were face to face now, and Peter’s spider sense was telling him there was danger here. He shook off the warning and looked straight into Harry’s fierce eyes. “What do you want, Peter Parker?” Harry was looking at him intently, his pupils strangely dilated.

“I have to talk to you. There’s something you should know.” There was a brightness in Harry’s eyes that shouldn’t have been there, as if they were made of glass. Peter suddenly had the absurd notion that his friend was a cleverly constructed android, sent to destroy him. He breathed deeply, trying to relieve the uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. If he let his imagination run away with him, he’d never get this said. He could feel the heat pouring off Harry’s body, smell his sweat mixed with smoke from the cigar, sense the pheromones. Of course Harry was human, and he smelled _good—_ mysterious, exotic, even sexy. Peter skin tingled and his cock began to fill. _It was the danger that was doing that to him, it must be._

“I think I know all I need to know about you,” Harry said coolly.

In a moment Harry would have him thrown out. He had to get his message across, now. “It’s the fusion ball,” Peter blurted. “It’s still alive down there, burning. You have to help me stop it.”

“And why would I do that?” Harry asked suspiciously. “If it was really alive I’d harness it, use it. Maybe I could recoup some of my losses.”

“It is true, Harry, but you can’t harness it. It’s growing, getting out of control.” Peter panicked, wondering if Harry would listen to him at all. But who else could he turn to? The _Daily Bugle_ had convinced everyone that Spider-man was a notorious criminal. No matter how much he helped the police individually, the authorities would never consent to work with him. And who would listen to Peter Parker, a college student like a million others?

Harry looked at him, really looked at him, and then suddenly reached out towards Peter’s face. Anticipating the blow, Peter turned his head, but the slap never arrived. He turned back to look at Harry and saw that he was smiling, his hand frozen in midair. “You thought I was going to hit you,” Harry said, as if the thought pleased him. “I was, but I changed my mind.” He ran his fingernail lightly down Peter’s cheek, leaving a stinging trail.

Peter took hold of his wrist. “Harry,” he said, “this isn’t about us. It’s—”

“—bigger than both of us. You already made that speech. You sound like Humphrey Bogart in _Casablanca_. ‘The problems of three little people don't amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world.’ How Hollywood can you get? What do you want me to do about it, Peter?”

Peter was beginning to wish he had never thought of coming here. “Find a way to—”

“Take me down there,” Harry interrupted, his voice almost a whisper. “I want to see it.” Harry was suddenly pale, subdued, his anger deflated. Peter could sense his friend’s muscles relax, his body temperature rise. What was going on?

“Harry I don’t—” But why not show him? If Harry saw the eerie green light, maybe he’d get as scared as Peter was. “All right,” said Peter, although his mind was already spinning with the complications. “How about tonight? It’s easier to see if there’s no moon.”

“I’ll meet you down there, just where the old dock started. Eight o’clock.”

“All right,” Peter said, starting to turn away. This had gone better than he had hoped.

Harry took his arm and pulled him back around. “Don’t be…him. Please.”

Peter flushed to the roots of his hair. “H-harry,” he stammered, “it’s not…I can’t…I mean, I…”

Harry stroked his arm. Through his shirt, Peter felt the warmth of Harry’s hand. It seemed too warm somehow, as if he should be sweating, but Harry’s forehead was dry, his face pale. Suddenly, Peter sensed Harry’s other hand shoot up towards his face. He stood there waiting dumbly, although he could have reacted. If Harry really wanted to hit him—but, no. Harry’s hands went to Peter’s chest and tore open the front of his polo shirt, popping the buttons and tearing through an inch of fabric. Peter felt Harry’s fingers dance across the bare skin he had exposed.

“Pete!” Harry’s face was excited, radiant. “I dreamed it, didn’t I?”

A wave of fear coursed through Peter’s chest and settled in his gut. Something was wrong with Harry. “Hey, are you all right?” he asked, moving Harry’s hand off his chest and taking him by the shoulders.

Harry took a step back and wiped his hand over his face, which was suddenly wet. “Yeah, of course. Why wouldn’t I be?” He went back unsteadily behind his desk and sat down heavily. “Look, Peter, I’m busy. I haven’t been getting much sleep. See you tonight, okay?”

“Okay.” Peter walked out slowly, feeling that he was leaving something unsaid. Why did he feel this fear, this heaviness? Wasn’t he on the way to accomplishing what he had come for?

After class, Peter went home to change his clothes and then to MJ’s. When he walked in, her little table was set for two, with a lace tablecloth and a candle burning in the center. She had made fettuccini alfredo, followed by a salad, and had done a good job of it, too. Peter’s heart swelled with love when he looked at her across the table in the flickering candlelight.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered. She smiled a little smile, but the look in her eyes told Peter that something was bothering her. “Are you okay?” he asked.

Blotting her lips delicately with her napkin, she shrugged. “Yeah. I’m okay.”

With rising panic, Peter realized that the ball was in his court. There was something he was supposed to be saying or doing, and he was missing it. “I saw Harry today,” he said cautiously, hoping to gain some time.

“How was Harry?” she asked, a little crisply.

“Harry was weird.”

That caught her attention. Her eyes widened in the warm yellow light. “What was wrong? He never comes around anymore. I never see him.”

“He knows you’re with me,” Peter said. Why was every subject painful tonight?

“It’s more than that. So, how was he weird?”

“He ripped my shirt open to see if I was wearing my suit.”

“Oh.” MJ seemed more shocked by this than Peter had expected. “Did he believe you about the fusion ball?”

“Yeah, we’re meeting tonight down by the dock.”

“You are?”

“Yeah.”

MJ pushed the remnants of pasta around her plate. “Be careful, Pete. You know he’ll never forgive Spider-man for what happened to his father.”

Peter remembered Harry’s strange lapse in the office that morning. Had he really imagined for a moment that he had only dreamed that Peter was Spider-man? Or had he wanted so desperately to believe that Peter _wasn’t_ Spider-man that he was grasping at any slim hope to deny what he knew was so? “Yeah,” he said again. “I guess he won’t.”

There was silence between them, and Peter could almost see the question forcing its way to MJ’s lips.

“Pete,” she said slowly, looking up at him with apologetic eyes, “did Spider-man…?” She trailed off uncertainly.

“No,” he said, and it hurt to see the relief in her eyes. She had thought he might be capable of murder. How could she trust him if she thought he had killed Norman?

“I thought it might have been an accident, you know,” she said quickly. She looked at him again, intent on his eyes. He blushed, wondering what his face revealed. “Peter, you know how Norman died, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” he said quickly, “but I can’t tell you. I can’t tell anyone. I promised.” Strictly speaking, that wasn’t true. He had only promised to keep the truth from Harry. But how could he do that if MJ knew? One day she would see the hatred in Harry’s eyes and she would tell, thinking she was helping.   Harry had worshipped his father. Let him hate Peter instead of being cut loose from his ideal. Without that, Peter wasn’t sure Harry would survive. He sighed, and then realized that MJ was still looking at him, her head cocked to one side.

“It hurts, doesn’t it, Pete?” she said. “There’s some weight you’re carrying, I can see that. Why won’t you share it with me?”

“I can’t,” he said helplessly, hoping she wouldn’t insist.

She rose from the table and reached across for his plate. “If you ever decide that you can….” Leaving the rest unsaid, she walked over to put the dishes in the sink. Relieved and grateful, Peter resolved to focus on MJ tonight, to really make their time together count.

****

When he left it was dark, and MJ stood in the doorway saying good-bye. She shivered in the thin pearl-gray dress that clung close to her body. Everything had been perfect—because she had made it that way. Once again, Peter wondered how he had gotten so lucky, and hoped that he could make her happy. If only he didn’t have so many other things on his plate. Right now he was afraid that he was in over his head.

Pulling her close, he kissed her, wrapping her shawl more tightly around her shoulders. “You should get back inside,” he said, concerned. “You’re shivering.”

“That’s okay.” She shook her head stubbornly. “I just want to watch you go.”

“Then I better go,” he said, feeling a surge of love. “I might be back late.”

She shrugged. “Just as long as you come back.”

He walked to the stairs and started down them, looking back to see her wave and take a step back into the apartment. Suddenly he remembered how Aunt May used to see Uncle Ben off to work in the morning with a kiss and a wave. Would that be Peter and MJ one day? Him in a suit and tie, her in gingham with a freshly pressed apron, handing him his lunch? Did Aunt May ever wear gingham, or was that from some movie he’d seen? Was that the kind of life he wanted for himself, for MJ? It wasn’t such a bad life, but was it right for them?

He reached the landing and lost sight of MJ. He heard the door close and the locks turn with a series of clicks. When he came back he would need to knock so that MJ could open them. He hadn’t wanted to leave as Spider-man tonight because of Harry. If he didn’t travel fast, he’d be late. But, then, knowing Harry, he’d be even later. Peter fetched his motor scooter out of MJ’s basement storage room and rode off towards the harbor.

When Peter reached the sunken dock, the ruin was dark and still in the frigid wind. Several wharves down, men were unloading a container ship onto trucks with a crane. The lights wavered in the cold, and an occasional cry or clash of metal carried through the air. He settled into a corner out of the wind to wait, thrusting his hands deep into the pockets of his thin jacket and hunching against the wintry air.

At a quarter to nine, he heard a distant motor. It was Harry’s limo, crawling carefully through the dark streets. On the dot of eight-fifty, Harry climbed out of the back seat, wearing dark clothes and a black leather jacket that fit him perfectly. He stood, hands in pockets, watching Peter as the limo pulled away.

“Aren’t you going to tell him to wait?” Peter asked.

Harry shrugged. “I’ll find my way home. I don’t like to be followed.”

An awkward silence fell between them.

“So?” Harry asked, with a sardonic smile, turning both palms up in a quizzical gesture. “Where’s the fire?”

“Come on. I’ll show you.” Peter turned towards the dark void where the wharf had stood. The charred piers stuck up out of the rippled water like tree stumps in a devastated forest. Stepping carefully, Peter led Harry to the edge of the boards that remained stable, stopping where the rest of the dock’s old surface careened crazily into the harbor. “This is as far as we can get. Look over there.” The green glow seemed to dance and swirl with the chop on the water. From here it was so dim, Peter wondered if Harry could see it. “Do you see?”

Harry breathed out softly at Peter’s side, leaving a plume of vapor on the air. “I want to get closer.”

“We can’t, it’s too dangerous.” Off to one side, there was a narrow path of sorts, a series of boards that had clung tenaciously to their piers after the collapse of the wharf. As Peter spoke, he knew from the tilt of Harry’s head that he had seen it. “No,” Peter said, “it’s not stable. We’ll have to get a boat or—”

Harry struck out on his own, picking his way lightly down the first board. It groaned under his weight. Peter followed, careful to wait until Harry had transferred his weight before stepping on a board. With his heightened senses he could see the cracks widen, hear the nails pulling out of the rotten wood. If necessary, he knew he could snatch Harry out of a fall with a web, but he thought Harry might almost rather die than be rescued again by Spider-man.

Harry had stopped, teetering uncertainly on a board that rocked on one nail. Holding onto the pier with one hand, he gazed out across the water. “It’s there!” he said excitedly, turning to glance at Peter. “I see it! Pete, you were right.”

His movement made the board tilt up like a see-saw, and gravity forced Harry to walk backwards down it and step into the void below. Peter’s hands were extended before he could form a conscious thought. The webbing caught Harry just before he touched the water and pulled him back to Peter. He stood unsteadily, looking dazed as he had that afternoon, as if he were drunk. Peter wondered if he had hit his head.

“Come on,” he said, taking Harry around the waist. No one could see them here. He threw a web up to the crane above them. In a few seconds he had swung them both off the dangerous spot and back to stable ground. When they were standing on solid wood, Peter released Harry, who had been oddly quiet. But, instead of standing up, Harry was leaning against him, pressing into him.

“Are you all right?” Peter asked, holding Harry’s limp body at arm’s length and looking at him carefully.

The smell of leather was powerful and, under it, Harry’s own scent was dark and sexual—smoke, aftershave, testosterone. “I’ll take you home,” Peter said, hoping he could find the limo or a cab.

“No, wait.” Now Harry was pulling back, staggering, and Peter moved with him until he approached the edge. “Peter, there’s something I have to—”

“Watch out, Harry, you’ll pull us both into the drink,” Peter cried, fighting to pull him back from the edge. Twisting, he pushed Harry away from the water and turned his own back to the harbor, blocking Harry from it with his body.

Harry threw back his head and laughed, and the sound echoed eerily off the water. “Spider-man kills the father, and now the son drowns him. Don’t you think that’s justice?”

“I didn’t kill him, Harry,” Peter said, regretting the words as soon as they were said. He had resolved not to speak of that night at all, to let Harry draw his own conclusions.

Harry stopped struggling suddenly—so suddenly that Peter almost lost his balance—and looked into Peter’s face. “I wish I could believe that,” he said softly. Peter still held him around the chest in a close embrace, pinning Harry’s arms against his sides. They stood like that, frozen, looking into each other’s eyes. “I’ve always cared about you, Pete, all our lives. But sometimes it seems as if you’re always in my way.”

Harry’s face moved closer to his, kept moving closer. “Harry,” Peter said, his mouth suddenly dry, “you’re my friend. You’ll always be my friend no matter what hap—”

Their lips touched. _Is he kissing me? Peter thought, panicked. Why is Harry kissing me?_ But he didn’t let go and he didn’t move away. The taste of Harry’s mouth, the scent of Harry’s body, his warmth where he pressed against Peter’s chest—these things filled Peter’s mind until there was room for nothing else. He started trembling, jerking uncontrollably. His stomach lurched as if he were speeding down the drop of a Coney Island roller coaster.

Harry’s lips opened Peter’s, his tongue stroked Peter’s lower lip and pushed inside, and Peter’s whole world shattered. Feeling Harry’s tongue caress him was like a blow to the head. Peter was dazed, astonished, and above all he was hungry for more of Harry’s touch. His arms moved higher, embracing Harry’s shoulders, as he felt Harry’s arms come around his waist. Harry sucked his tongue and then sighed into his mouth. Peter’s hips jerked involuntarily with arousal as Harry’s hands stroked up his arms to touch his shoulders and neck, to caress his face.

“You’re my friend, too, Peter,” he whispered, holding Peter’s face in both cupped hands. Peter had almost forgotten having said those words to Harry just moments before.

“Harry, I—” He was shaking so violently he could hardly speak, but Harry put a gentle finger against his lips.

“But Spider-man? He isn’t my friend,” Harry said, smiling, and just as Peter caught the malice in that smile, Harry threw him backwards off the dock.

Peter fell spread-eagled, his senses reeling. When he hit the black water, the web shot from his wrists to slap against a pier and pull him back up into the cold wind. He shivered, trying to find purchase with his shoes against the slimy wood. He felt weak, debilitated, but the shock of the freezing water had partly brought him back to himself. How could Harry do this to him? Kiss him, touch him, push him into the harbor, any of it?

Looking up, he saw Harry’s face for a moment grinning down at him. That is, he thought it must be Harry’s face, but it was twisted into a malevolent mask with a smile that mocked him, eyes that saw right through him. Losing his grip on the web, Peter splashed back into the water. By the time he managed to clamber out, Harry was long gone.

He walked his scooter back to MJ’s place, too wet and demoralized to ride it. He didn’t know what to worry about first. One thing he wondered over and over was how Harry had managed to move faster than his spider-senses to take him unawares and push him into the water. He supposed that it was the distraction of the kiss, the kiss that should never have happened.

Something was wrong with Harry, that much was certain. His manic behavior in the office had been bad enough, but what he had done at the harbor had been….

Peter had let him do it. Peter had kissed him back, and had nearly come in his pants when Harry had sucked his tongue. He had acted like a fool and had deserved his dunking in the harbor. He was lucky it hadn’t been worse. As much as he didn’t want to believe it, Harry was acting like his enemy, an enemy who reminded him more and more of the Green Goblin. But how could that be?   Norman Osborn was dead, but had he left something of the monster that had inhabited him in the home or the office that he shared with Harry? Peter wasn’t even sure how Norman had become the Goblin. Was it a disease? Was Harry “catching” it?

And then there was the worst—MJ. Just hours after making love to her for the first time, Peter had betrayed her, and with Harry, of all people. Peter wondered if Harry was gay, and that led to the question of whether he himself was gay. He couldn’t be. He’d never thought about men before. He’d never thought of anyone besides MJ. Back in school, he used to think about her all the time, but his thoughts hadn’t really been sexual. They were sort of dreamy, like a movie where he got the girl, and everything went right for him—for a change. And she was the only one who had ever been nice to him, in those days. The only one who had ever seen the good in him and cared enough to show it.

But if he wasn’t gay, then why did he keep thinking about Harry, about how good it had felt to hold him, about that kiss? Because his spider senses were strong, and he hadn’t totally learned how to control them yet. Because MJ had opened up his sexual feelings, and he needed to focus them on her. Better to forget about the whole thing. Better to worry about what crazy Harry would try to do with the fusion reaction.

After putting the scooter into the storage room, Peter couldn’t face knocking on MJ’s door at only eleven o’clock, when her nosey neighbor would still be up, her door half ajar so that she could see who passed through the hall. As he had done before, he climbed the three stories up a dark recess in the malodorous alley behind MJ’s bedroom and hoped that no one would see him cross the roof. What he hadn’t counted on was that the window would be locked because MJ was expecting him to come through the door. He scratched and tapped on the pane for what seemed like ages until she threw back the curtains and let him in.

“Peter, what happened?” she asked as she shut the window behind him. “You’re all wet.”

“Yeah,” he said. “The dock’s real unstable. I fell in.”

She pursed her lips and folded her arms across her chest. “Oh, right. Peter, you don’t fall. At least not anymore. Are you going to tell me what really happened? He pushed you in, didn’t he?”

“MJ….” he said helplessly.

“I know,” she said, relenting. “He’s still your friend.” She moved to embrace him and he took a step back.

“You don’t want to touch me until I’ve had a shower. That’s New York Harbor water. Who knows what’s in it?” Peter felt like a heel. His lips were still sensitive from Harry’s kiss. Every time he thought of Harry sucking his tongue he started getting hard.

“What are we going to do with your clothes?” MJ asked, looking him over. “Pete, you really ought to bring a few things over so you’ll have a change of clothes here.”

Was MJ asking him to move in? A jolt of adrenaline coursed through his gut. Funny, that he could face a couple of guys with guns, or a runaway train, but this scared him more.

She must have seen the terror written on his face, because she slapped his arm playfully. “You should see yourself! I’m not asking you to move in. Would it kill you to leave a couple of pairs of pants over here?” As she walked away, he could tell that she was hurt. Again, he felt like a heel. He’d make it up to her, just as soon as he figured out how to deal with this fusion reaction. And with Harry.

He’d been freezing, so the hot water felt great, and it felt good to wash the slightly greasy layer of who-knew-what off his skin. He had finished washing, but he stood and let the water cascade over him. Maybe he needed to think. He wasn’t ready to face MJ yet.

That kiss—

Why couldn’t he forget it? Why couldn’t he chalk it up to shock, stupidity, innocence? He rubbed both palms over his closed eyelids. In his mind, he could still see Harry’s face coming closer to his, and when he did he remembered the excitement boiling up in his chest, in his gut. Why had he felt more turned on, more passionate, in that one moment than he had so far with MJ? Was it because he was so worried about disappointing her that it paralyzed him?

The door to the bathroom opened, and Peter froze. Just thinking about what happened had made him hard. What was MJ going to think? He turned back towards the showerhead and turned the hot water off, letting the cold run over his front.

“I’m almost done,” he said, hoping she wouldn’t look at him.

The curtain pulled back. “Hey,” said MJ, holding out a root beer. “I thought you might want this.”

“Thanks.” Turning off the water, he grabbed a towel and held it over himself.

“Did you run out of hot water?” MJ asked quizzically.

“No, I, uh, just forgot which way the faucets turned.” What a lame excuse. MJ laughed and handed him the root beer. It tasted good. She was so thoughtful, so kind to him. He’d never find anyone else who loved him this much, he knew he wouldn’t. He needed to put tonight behind him and move on with her.

“So, Pete,” MJ said, still laughing a little at him, “I get the idea that you’re thinking what I’m thinking.” She looked significantly at his towel.

She had seen his erection. But she didn’t know what he had been thinking. He stepped out of the tub and faced her, the towel draped between them. Already his erection was starting to soften. How could he let her down again?

Why couldn’t he touch her with the passion and heat she deserved? Was it because he had so much at stake? Was he that much of a coward? Why was it so easy to feel aroused when he thought of the man who had pushed him off a dock?

Remembering the touch of Harry’s tongue across his lips made his erection stir. He let the thoughts come, felt the blood surge. He was going to give MJ what she wanted of him. Taking her into his arms, he pressed his mouth down hard on hers.

The morning after his encounter with Harry, Peter rushed off early to class, so that he and MJ didn’t even have a chance to talk. He told himself that he wasn’t trying to avoid her. He had an eight o’clock class, and then he had an idea he had to check out, and school was the only place to do it.

In the months since Dr. Octavius’s death, his papers had been deposited in the university library. Peter had been through parts of them. He had written a term paper analyzing Dr. Octavius’s theoretical formula for destabilizing a fusion reaction. Unfortunately, the doctor had not left a practical means of effecting the destabilization without vaporizing oneself in the process, while depositing a small bit of some inhibiting substance into the reaction’s core. Peter had been playing with the idea of a delivery mechanism in his head for months, but he just didn’t have the resources to build it and do the experiments necessary to make sure it would work safely.

They knew him at the special collections room and waved him through the gate. In a few minutes he was completely absorbed in reading one of Dr. Octavius’s notebooks, the pages written over in his large but radically slanted handwriting, with sentences squeezed in here and there, or even written crosswise over other sections when Octavius wanted to add a thought later. Peter was so used to it now, it was like reading print.

He read through the relevant parts again and then sat back to think. Dr. Octavius had proposed injecting a mixture of heavy metals into the core. The idea was to make the core burn too fast and devour the reaction’s stable outer shell, with explosive results. That shell was probably what was protecting the reaction right now from the cold water it was immersed in. Peter sketched an idea on his pad, frowned and sketched it again. He had enough for a prototype, but the only one who could realize the design for him was Harry. Harry, with the vast resources of Oscorp at his fingertips. Peter would have to see him again.

He walked into the grand lobby reluctantly, dreading the moment when he would be alone with his friend. His friend, or his enemy? The man he had embraced the night before, and the one who had pushed him into the harbor. Harry seemed to be two people these days, one his friend, the other bent on implacable revenge. Which one would he find waiting for him today?

Just as Peter approached the receptionist’s desk, he saw Harry leave the executive elevator with an entourage of dark-suited men. As he changed direction to intercept them, he saw three men take a bead on him and move in. Avoiding two of them with speed, he encountered the third, who took him by the lapel and tried to steer him out of Harry’s path. Peter was just about to pull away from him as discreetly as he could when Harry noticed him and came over, waving the guards away.

Taking Peter’s elbow, he steered him over to a corner where they could be alone. Peter was surprised at how grim and old he looked, wearing dark glasses and a well-cut suit.

“What are you doing here, Peter?” he asked. “Why did you leave me alone last night?”

“I didn’t leave you,” Peter answered indignantly. “After you shoved me off the dock, you left.”

“After I did what?” Harry seemed genuinely surprised.

“Don’t you remember?”

Harry shrugged and smiled a little smile that looked painful on his face. “All I remember is that we…we talked. I was drunk. I must have gotten home somehow and I woke up face down on my living room floor. Just like dear old dad.”

“Your dad did that?” Peter asked, shocked.

“Once or twice. I used to find him there when I got home. What do you care?” he added bitterly.

“You weren’t drunk.”

“I was. I get drunk almost every night. I forget things. I pass out. Does that shock you, Peter?”

The conversation was getting out of hand, and Peter was having trouble keeping his head clear. Harry’s hand was warm where it gripped his elbow. As Harry leaned in close, Peter could smell the sharp, compelling scent of his skin. Peter wanted to touch his face to the spot where Harry’s neck joined his shoulder and breathe in. “I care, Harry,” Peter said, and his voice was hoarse and strained.

“Yeah,” Harry scoffed, “you care so much you—”

Peter couldn’t bear to hear him say it one more time. “I found a way to stop the fusion reaction.”

“Who says I want to stop it?” Harry said, pulling back. “I want to harness it.”

“Okay, if you can harness it, fine,” Peter said, although he didn’t believe it was possible for a minute. “But just in case something goes wrong, you should have this.” He held out the plans he had made and Harry took them slowly. “Build it, Harry. It might be the only way to stop the thing. What if the reaction comes out of the water and you can’t control it? What if it starts eating up the city? Build this and test it, Harry. Then you’ll have it if you need it.”

Through the dark glasses, Harry seemed to be looking at his face. “Did you mind, last night?” he almost whispered. It sent a chill up Peter’s spine. “The last thing I remember is you saying I was your friend, and then…did I do what I think I did?”

“Yeah,” said Peter softly, his heart beating like mad. “I didn’t mind until you pushed me in the water.”

“I’ll build it,” said Harry, and, with a squeeze of Peter’s elbow, he was gone.

****

Peter woke when the early dawn light was just starting to wash over the room. MJ lay next to him, breathing almost imperceptibly, with one arm thrown out over the covers and a subtle smile on her parted lips. Peter loved her with all his heart. But….

He could tell that MJ was happy with the way things were. He was loving and affectionate, and the sex was good. But MJ didn’t know what thoughts Peter had to think to be able to make love to her. It was shameful, embarrassing. He kept telling himself that it was just a case of the nerves, that as time went on he would forget about Harry and be able to concentrate only on MJ. But as the days stretched into a week, and the weeks into a month, it hadn’t happened. In fact, things were getting worse. Instead of thinking of his brief encounter with Harry, Peter was making up elaborate fantasies in his head, trying to remember what Harry had looked like naked in the school locker room. This wasn’t working. Something had to change.

What he was doing to her was wrong. She was his best friend in the world—his light, his inspiration. But he didn’t want to have sex with her. He thought the words to himself again. _I don’t want to have sex with her._ It hurt. But, along with the bitterness, the admission brought him some sort of peace. Just when he thought he was settling into knowing who he was, Peter had to face himself again. Once again he was turning out to be different from the person he had planned to be. He would tell her. He had to. And he had to see Harry again.

Careful not to disturb MJ, Peter went into the bathroom and showered. He had brought some clothes over during the week, plus his toothbrush and shaving kit. He thought about going back to his lonely, noisy apartment. What was the matter with him? Why couldn’t he make this work?

When he came out of the bathroom, MJ was sitting on the bed reading the paper with a scowl on her beautiful face. “Look at this, Peter, just look! That creep has gone too far this time.”

In spite of his recent thoughts, Peter smiled to see her waving the front page of the _Daily Bugle_ at him. There was usually something on the front page that outraged her, and it was usually something about Spider-man.

“Let’s see,” he said, taking it from her hand. “‘Web Pollution Menace: Spider-man’s Discarded Webs a Death-trap for Unsuspecting Pedestrians.’ Oh, man, if that wasn’t so pathetic, it would be—” Peter froze, his eyes riveted on a small item near the bottom of the page.

_Oscorp Mounts Salvage Operation in New York Harbor_

Harry Osborn, son of the late entrepreneur Norman Osborn, announced yesterday that his company would mount a major salvage operation in New York Harbor aimed at recovering some equipment lost in the wharf fire and collapse several months ago that was visible throughout most of the metropolitan area. Mr. Osborn declined to specify exactly what the equipment was, but there has been speculation that only extremely valuable equipment would justify this type of operation. A company spokesperson refused to comment on whether or not Oscorp feared that rival companies would reach the equipment before they did, since salvage rights could be invoked, even in New York Harbor.

All thoughts of a talk with MJ flew out of Peter’s head. “Harry’s going after the fusion ball,” Peter said urgently. “I have to stop him. People could get killed.”

MJ frowned. “How do you know he’s not going after it to stop it?” she asked.

Peter stopped, thinking of the last time he’d seen Harry, of that little squeeze of his elbow. “You’re right. I don’t know. But I have to find out.”

The first thing he noticed when he got to the harbor was the new platform built out over the place where he had seen the underwater light. It must have taken a week to build, even with Oscorp’s resources. It was troubling that Harry hadn’t told Peter he was going ahead with the operation.

Harry was there, wearing a suit, hands in pockets, slouching slightly as he watched two cranes lower a large metal structure down from the new dock.

“What’s that, Harry?” Peter asked.

Harry didn’t even turn to him. “It’s an expandable box to catch the fusion ball and stabilize it within a powerful magnetic field.” From Harry’s voice, Peter could tell that this was not the Harry he had spoken to the last time. It was the Harry who had thrown him off the dock.

“That’s impossible,” Peter said bluntly.

Harry turned to him, his eyes glassy and surprisingly green in the sunlight. “I’ll do it, and then I’ll have the power to provide this city with an eternity of energy, or bring it to its knees, whichever I decide. Just kidding.” Grinning, he turned back to watch the operation.

Peter felt helpless. Surrounded by so many men and so much powerful equipment, what could he do to stop this? Worse yet, did Harry have a contingency plan in case things went wrong? He decided to find out if the failsafe he had designed had ever been built. Noticing Oscorp’s Chief Engineer over to one side looking nervous, Peter approached him.

“Hi, Mr. Reese. Do you remember me?”

The man spared him a glance. “No.”

Now what? If he mentioned that they had met at the original demonstration of the fusion reaction, he’d get way off track. “I’m Peter Parker. I designed the injector to stop the reaction.”

Now Reese studied his face for a moment. “Nice design,” he said, indicating a long wooden box sitting on the dock. “It was pretty easy to build from the drawing. I made a few modifications. It won’t work, though.”

Peter felt a rush of panic. Had this man noticed some flaw in the design that Peter hadn’t foreseen? “Why not?”

Reese shrugged. “It works theoretically, of course, but who the hell is going to get close enough to make it work? Whoever does is gonna get one hell of a sunburn.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” said Harry. He felt the Spider-suit tight against his skin. Well, Aunt May was always telling him he ought to get a little sun.

****

It took all day to lower the box into position and deploy it. The trick was going to be getting the fusion ball inside without allowing it to devour the metal sides. The magnetic field had to be strong enough to repel the fusion ball from the sides, but weak enough to allow it inside the box. Peter had just come back from calling MJ to tell her he wouldn’t be home for dinner when a shout from one of the engineers on the dock alerted him that something had changed.

The sun was setting, and the orange glare off the metal dock made it hard to see what was happening in the water. The cranes started to rise, bringing a burden up from the deep water. The water bubbled furiously, sending plumes of steam up into the cold Manhattan sky. When the box broke the surface, a gasp came from the people crowded along the waterfront. Even through the clouds of steam, it looked as if the sun had been stopped in its course and dragged back into the world for a few more daylight hours. The ball caught in that box was so bright that the sunlit city scene suddenly looked black by comparison. It spun angrily as if resentful at being contained. To Peter, it looked unnatural, malevolent, despite its great potential for good. He had seen people he cared about killed and destroyed by this thing, and he didn’t want to see any more pulled into that maelstrom.

“It’s stable!” Harry cried triumphantly. “We have it. Now lower it into the container.”

Peter saw an enormous armored truck off to one side with the roof opened up, ready to receive it. The great light went in and was cut off. Peter realized he was seeing purple spots before his eyes. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the relative dimness.

People turned to leave, still buzzing with excitement. A few applauded or cheered. Harry ignored them all. He brushed past Peter on the way to his limo, then slowed and turned to gloat. “We didn’t need that after all, did we?” he asked, gesturing towards the wooden box that held the failsafe.

“Not yet,” said Peter.

“And we won’t.” Harry looked jubilant but cold; his face was set in a proud sneer that made Peter think of Norman towards the end. Peter had a sudden thought that bothered him. What if it wasn’t just Harry’s grief and anger that were making him act strangely? What if Harry had done something to become that way? Had he taken something to become like his father? Did he know about the Green Goblin?

“Harry,” he said, reaching out. “Did you—”

Harry turned, and the world turned with him. Peter saw the truck give a lurch and split open just before the shock wave hit him. Grabbing Harry, he fell back, protecting the other with his body as the energy wave rushed over them.

People were screaming all around them, struggling to their feet and being knocked down again by the enormous wind. Peter looked at Harry and saw that his face was pale and worried.

“What happened, Peter? What did I do?”

“You brought up the fusion reaction, but the containment field isn’t working.”

Harry took him by the jacket with both hands. “Stop it, Peter. You have to stop it.”

“I will,” Peter said. “Harry, let me go.” Harry nodded and dropped his hands. Struggling to stand, Peter pulled Harry upright and set him on his feet. “Will you be all right?” he asked.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Go.” Harry didn’t look fine, but Peter had no choice. Finding an alley, he stripped off his street clothes and came back as Spider-man to find the failsafe. It was still lying on the dock where he had last seen it, while the fusion ball was finishing the last morsels of the box and the armored truck that had contained it for scant seconds.

Opening the box, he fought off the doubts that made him wonder whether the injection of heavy metals would work as Dr. Octavius had thought. What if it did the opposite? What if the reaction got stronger instead of weaker? He couldn’t have second thoughts now. He just had to act.

The injector was essentially faithful to his design, with a rifle-shaped body and a long tube made out of a tough polymer he hoped would penetrate the reaction and resist melting for a few seconds. He picked it up and looked back.

The bright ball was rising, drifting towards the metal dock, where a few stragglers still ran towards solid ground, and the two cranes. Peter activated the mechanism and attached a web to a crane to swing after it. The web singed with a hiss as it bent toward the ball. He threw up another strand to the other crane and made a pass at the ball.

The heat was so intense he could smell his suit burning, and the thing was so bright he couldn’t open his eyes. A searing pain shot across his right arm. He swung past and clung to the side of the crane to get his bearings again. As the ball came towards him, it was growing, gaining momentum. All the extra tools and machinery left on the dock were flying up, piece by piece, to feed the hungry little sun. Peter judged the ball’s movement and pushed off again, the injector aimed at its heart. As he approached it he suddenly heard a whoosh and renewed screams from the people on the ground. But he couldn’t take his attention off the ball now. All he could do aim and hope he would succeed in stabbing the thing to the heart.

But something knocked him sideways, making him lose his grip on the web and plunge towards the water. With one hand he held on to the injector, while the other sent a web zinging up to the crane. Swinging back to rest against the crane again, he looked around to see what had hit him, and his heart sank. Hovering between himself and the fusion ball was the Green Goblin.

“Spider-man thought he killed me, but he was wrong,” said that familiar, raspy voice. “And now he won’t kill my little toy. We’ll send him to the heart of it, and let it eat him up.”

Peter looked quickly down at the metal dock where he had left Harry, but it was empty. The crowd had all pushed through to the wharf, where a thick, a panicked stream of people was trying to move up the choked streets to safety. Could this creature be his friend Harry? It seemed impossible.

Peter started to move toward the fusion ball again, but the Green Goblin blocked him. “You can’t cross my bridge or I’ll gobble you up,” cried the Goblin. Leaning back to balance the board, the green figure plunged down towards Peter.

Encumbered by the clumsy injector, Peter could only try to avoid him by swiveling away in midair. As the Goblin passed his shoulder, Peter looked down and saw his suit being torn by the razor-sharp spikes that protruded from the elbows of the armored suit. Blood welled from the scratches beneath. Peter yanked himself up the web, out of harm’s way and placed the crane between himself and the Goblin. How could he reach the fusion ball without being ripped to shreds?

Peter was bleeding from the left shoulder where the Goblin’s spikes had snagged against his suit and his skin. His right side was singed in places, his arm covered with red, angry burns where the suit had melted and burned his skin. He had enough strength to get back to the fusion ball, but could he fight his adversary, too, an adversary who was much better protected in his armored suit? On the other hand, if Peter could lead the Goblin close to the fusion ball, then maybe it would get really hot in that suit. Peter decided to test that theory.

A feint to the right drew the Goblin towards him. With a snap of his wrist, he threw a web that caught the Goblin by the waist and flung him towards the ball. Peter used the Goblin’s momentum to approach the ball himself, letting go of the web as the green man plunged down and away from the heat. Before the Goblin could bank around to attack him again, Peter acted quickly. Taking the injector in both hands he plunged its tip deep inside the burning mass and pushed in the plunger. A mass of flame, like a solar flare, shot out at him from the ball’s surface. With nothing to hold on to, Peter fell, his web burned through.

He hit the deck hard on his back and groaned aloud. _I failed,_ he thought, fighting to stay conscious. _It’s getting bigger._ That was all he knew.

Air was moving past him, and his first thought was that he was on the dock as it slid into the maw of the unstoppable ball of fire. But the air was too cool, his surroundings too quiet. He tried to move, but his arms were pinned to his body, his hands immobilized before him. He opened his eyes and realized that he was chained, caught helpless on the pinnacle of a very tall building.

Looking towards the harbor, he saw a great glow that seemed to brighten and fade, brighten and fade, before it brightened one last time and exploded with a blast so dazzling he had to turn his face away. A second later he heard the sound and felt the shockwave. Then all was darkness. The fusion ball was destroyed, and it seemed to have taken the lights of downtown Manhattan with it. Peter needed to get back there, to see if anyone needed his help. He struggled against his bonds, but he was too weak to break them.

He was bound to a thick pole with a mass of narrow chains that dug into his flesh and kept his wrists fastened tightly together so that he couldn’t throw a web. There was no play in his bonds, no room to flex his arms and gain some leverage against them. The chains were rusty from sitting out in the weather. Whoever was in that green suit must have been planning this for a long time.

Peter fought against his chains, drawing blood form his wrists and shoulders but coming no closer to breaking free. He wondered if the Green Goblin had been back at the dock when the ball had exploded. No matter what happened to Peter, at least Dr. Octavius’s menace to the city and its people was gone. But the Green Goblin was back, and, before long, he would find something else just as heinous to foist on this city.

Against the last light in the west, Peter saw a speck coming towards him, moving swiftly. He knew immediately what it was. The Green Goblin was coming back for him. It moved inexorably forward, growing and becoming clearer, second by second, taking on definition and form. The frozen grimace on its face made Peter think of a sideshow sign that had frightened him as a child. He wanted to see under that mask, to discover who was tormenting him. And yet…if it was Harry, did Peter really want to know? If it was Harry, what would Peter do about it?

The green form was nearly on top of him when, as if in a nightmare, Peter realized that it wasn’t going to slow down. All he could do was turn his face away and brace for the blow as the creature’s hoverboard battered his shoulder. The cackling laughter that filled his head was nearly as bad as the pain, as the force of the blow pushed him partway around the pole, the chains screeching against the metal. The Goblin banked and turned, rushing at him again as if to devour him, this time glancing off his other shoulder. Peter groaned as the chains dug into his flesh.

“What do you want from me?” he yelled.

The green figure laughed again and said something that Peter couldn’t hear. It came close, hovering before his sight. The lights came back on in the buildings around them, throwing the Goblin’s face into sudden relief. From within the mask’s grotesque mouth, Peter saw the glimmer of a human eye.

“Harry?” he said, desperately. “Harry, if it’s you, please…”

With a shriek, the Goblin turned around and spun suddenly back, battering Peter in the chest with both fists in quick succession. Unable to protect himself, Peter could only struggle under the blows that were knocking the wind out of him. When the Goblin backed away and cocked its head at him as if to admire its handiwork, Peter fought for breath, his chest on fire. He wondered if he was going to die here, bleeding and choking, never able to fight back. Was it Harry doing this? Was it Harry who was killing him?

The secret Peter had kept all this time, with so much pain, was turning on him. Because Harry blamed Spider-man for Norman’s death, he was helping Norman to strike back from beyond the grave. Fear gnawed at Peter’s gut. He couldn’t let Norman win.

The Goblin took a swing at him, and Peter pivoted instinctively, only to find that the chains were slightly looser than they had been. Either the struggle or the gouges the chains had made in the pole had created a small amount of slack. Turning his forearms outward, he strained as hard as he could. Despite the beating he was taking, he felt stronger now than when he had come back to consciousness on this rooftop. The chains were making small cracking sounds when the Goblin took another swing at his face, and Peter ducked and spun around the pole so quickly that his opponent’s armored fist hit the metal with a dull clang.

Turning out his arms, Peter strained again. A link popped somewhere, then another. The Goblin came around in front and punched at him again. Pulling free of his bonds, Peter crouched under the punch and swung the mass of chains in a low circle so that they wrapped around the Goblin’s feet, knocking him off the board. He fell backwards on the pitched roof and slid to the gutter before jumping to his feet and springing back to Peter, punching him hard in the stomach with his armored green fist.

It hurt more than Peter could believe. His feet left the roof and he flew backwards, slamming into the pole with his back, the wind knocked out of him. Peter knew he had to avoid taking any more blows like that. He had to concentrate on getting in close or striking from afar. At arm’s length, the Goblin could kill him with a blow.

They grappled, and the Goblin tried to get enough distance on him to strike, but Peter stayed with him. They rolled down the roof, and when Peter jumped away from the edge, the Goblin lay there rolled in webbing. Jumping to his feet, he tore at it wildly. Peter pulled his feet out from under him, toppling him off the edge to dangle over the street. He heard a buzz behind him and ducked as the hoverboard screamed past his head and banked for a turn. As the Goblin jumped aboard, Peter yanked the web, throwing him off balance. He hit the roof with a thump and Peter sprang on him in a second, intent on ripping off the green carnival mask that distorted his features. Those features mocked him as the hoverboard zoomed up behind him and Peter was forced to roll away from the Goblin and hit the deck.

When he came back up from his dive, the grinning apparition was holding up a glowing, round object that made Peter’s heart sink. It was a percussion grenade, capable of blowing off the top of this building and sending showers of debris to the street below.

“No!” Peter shouted, as the Goblin deliberately pulled the pin and tossed it underhand, high in the air. And in the second it took to leave the Goblin’s hand, Peter leaped, and, as he did, he knew with completely certainty who his enemy was. It was Harry, who had tossed spaldeens to Peter with just such a gesture through all the years of grammar school.

His leap was short by two meters, so he sent out a web that seemed to shoot in slow motion into the sky as Peter’s body dropped back towards the roof. The glowing sphere, encased in webbing, followed Peter down until Peter’s feet touched the roof and he swung the thing in a wide arc over his head—once, twice, and away over the city, far over the buildings to the river, where it exploded with a tiny flash, a puff of smoke, and a sharp, delayed report, as its remains shimmered harmlessly into the water.

Panting, drenched in sweat that stung his wounds, Peter removed his mask, dropping it to the roof, and turned to look at Harry. The Goblin stared after his grenade as if mesmerized, still for the first time since their conflict had begun. Peter pulled him around by the shoulder and wrenched the Goblin mask off his head. Harry stared at him, open-mouthed, his hair slick with sweat, his face flushed red. Rage burned hot in Peter’s chest. Still holding Harry by the shoulder, Peter backhanded him hard across the face. Harry gaped for a second, stunned, and then dropped to the roof in a heap. Remorse cooled Peter’s rage and sent him down to kneel by Harry’s side.

Peter was unable to rouse him or make him stand. Harry was unresponsive, although conscious, his limbs inert. Using the buttons on the Goblin’s wrist, Peter called back the hoverboard, which had sailed out of sight when Harry had fallen off it, and used it to take them both to the Osborn building.

He landed on the balcony and deactivated the hoverboard there, leaving the hideous mask there, too, intending to dispose of both later. He carried Harry into the house, remembering with pain the night he had carried Norman Osborn’s lifeless body into this room and laid him on the sofa, wrapped in a sheet, in the sight of his only son. That day was the direct cause of this one.

Peter unlatched the green suit, remembering its cleverly hidden catches and carefully constructed joints. He pulled it off Harry bit by bit, until his friend lay nearly naked on the rug. Harry suffered it all without protest, closing his eyes and breathing steadily but shallowly. Peter took the pieces of armor outside, and when he returned, Harry’s eyes were open. Peter squatted down next to him.

“Harry?” he asked tentatively.

“Peter.” Harry’s voice was thin, exhausted.

“How did you become the Green Goblin, Harry? What happened to you?”

“You killed my father.” Harry closed his eyes and let his face fall to one side.

“I didn’t kill him, Harry. I should have told you before.” Peter realized that his own voice was full of emotion. He had kept this inside for so long that it hurt to finally let it out. “It was his last wish—he didn’t want you to know he was the Green Goblin. He begged me not to tell you, so I—”

Harry’s eyes were hard. “Tell me how he died.”

Peter told him everything—about the battle, the streetcar held in the balance against MJ’s life, about how they had fought in the deserted building on Riker’s Island, and how Norman’s last ruse had cost him his life.

“The hoverboard came at me from behind. I jumped out of the way and it impaled him. I think he meant for both of us to die.” Peter’s last words hung in the air for minutes. He waited, head bowed, for Harry to speak.

“Everything I didn’t care about, he gave to me. Everything I ever wanted he took from me. The monster in him called to the monster in you. He wanted to die with you and instead you killed him, Peter.” Harry’s voice was flat, tired, his eyes full of pain and brimming with unshed tears. His face was pale with a rising bruise on the cheekbone where Peter had hit him. Looking at it gave Peter a twinge of guilt.

“I didn’t kill him, Harry. I tried to help him but he wouldn’t let me. Just tell me how you became the Goblin and we can deal with it together. I can help you.” His voice sounded more hopeful than he felt.

“You can’t help me. I’m addicted to the serum,” Harry said. “I need a dose now. If I don’t have it, I’ll die.”

“What serum?” Peter asked, leaning forward. “How do you know you’ll die?”

“My father left it. He told me…he wanted me to take it. He kept telling me to, until finally I did. And now I need it. When I take it, I lose time. I don’t know what I do, but I wake up back here. When I don’t take it, I feel insane. He controls me, Pete. Either way, I’m lost.” He looked at Peter with desperation. “I see him in the mirror, Peter. I’m crazy. You don’t know how many times I stood out there on the balcony and tried to jump, but I couldn’t do it. He won’t let me. You have to help me end it.”

Peter could feel Harry slipping away from him. Harry wanted to die, but Peter wouldn’t let it happen. “Show me the serum. Show me where you got the suit and the mask. Let me help you.”

Peter had to help Harry stand, and together they went to the secret garret behind the mirror, and Peter saw with disgust and amazement the rows of masks, the computers that controlled the image in the mirrors and the voice that had urged Harry to take the serum and had made him think he was insane, all triggered by Spider-man’s presence in the house after Norman’s death. It was diabolical, and it had almost worked.

Harry was having chills by the time Peter had finished a quick examination of the lab, so Peter helped him get to his room and lie on the bed.

“See? I need the serum,” Harry said through chattering teeth. “I’m going to die.”

“I don’t think so,” said Peter, covering him with a quilt. “Your father needed you to become the Green Goblin. He made the serum addictive, but I doubt he made it fatal.”

“Are you going to just leave me here?”

“I’ll stay with you until you’re better,” Peter said. “You’re having withdrawal. When I have a chance to look at the formula, I’ll have a better idea why.”

Peter watched over Harry for most of the night, getting him water and wiping his face with a cool towel. Most of the time, Harry seemed unaware of his presence, murmuring strange words and seeming to see things that weren’t really in the room with them. Peter sat in an armchair near the bed and watched him, thinking a lot and dozing a little.

He thought about MJ lying in her lonely bed, wondering where he was. He had called her earlier, letting her know that he had to stay with Harry, but telling her no details, except that the fusion ball was destroyed. She had already heard news reports that the Green Goblin was back. He tried to assure her that all was well, but he could tell she didn’t buy it. She loved him so much it broke his heart. He loved her, too, but not the way she wanted him to. Could he stay with her, and make some kind of a life? In his heart, he knew he would be living a lie.

It wasn’t just Harry. One kiss before being pushed into the harbor didn’t make a relationship, and their friendship had been irreparably damaged by all that had happened over the last eighteen months. It was Peter. He was gay, and when he thought about it, he knew that he always had been.

Just before dawn, Harry fell into what seemed like a restful sleep, and Peter finally dared to leave the room. He went into the mirrored bathroom and stopped short when he saw himself. He was still wearing his spider-suit, which was tattered and filthy. His chest and arms were bloody where they had been scored by the chains and the spiked suit. Peter took a quick shower, not daring to leave Harry for more than a few minutes. He chose a thin bathrobe from Harry’s collection of a dozen or so. At home Peter had just one, and it didn’t really fit him anymore. This one was black, made of thin cotton, and it felt soft against his wounded skin.

Harry was still asleep when he returned. Peter decided to make some food and maybe some tea. It would probably be good for Harry.

The kitchen was huge, and it took some time to find what he needed. His first idea of scrambled eggs and toast was replaced by a ham sandwich when he couldn’t find a small frying pan. Just as he lifted a sandwich to his mouth, he heard a small sound somewhere in the house, augmented by his spider-sense. He froze, dropping the sandwich back on the plate, then turned and sprinted towards the garret. When he got there, the mirrored door was ajar, and when he pushed it all the way open to look inside, he saw Harry, barefoot and wearing only a pair of ragged gray sweatpants, with a vial in one hand and a syringe in the other, fumbling with shaking hands as he tried to make the two meet. He never looked up as Peter walked to him and stopped.

“Is that what you want?” Peter asked quietly.

“I need it,” Harry said.

“You don’t need it to live. What do you want it for?”

“I have to do this.” Gritting his teeth with effort, Harry finally succeeded in bringing the needle into contact with the top of the vial.

“If you become the Green Goblin, I’ll be your enemy. I’ll have to fight you.”

Concentrating, Harry filled the shot carefully and looked up. “I’ll be strong,” he said. “It makes me strong. It makes me like my father. You can’t stand that, can you?” In two steps, Peter had reached him to take his wrists in an iron grip. Harry tried to pull away and failed. “You’ve always had everything,” he spat. “You’re perfect Peter Parker, and you’re Spider-man. You took my father away from me.”

Peter shook his head. “Being Spider-man’s not all it’s cracked up to be. And Norman loved you, not me. I’m not going to let you take that serum.”

Harry pulled again, twisting in Peter’s grip. “You have MJ. Who do I have?”

Those words hurt more than the gouges in his skin. “I don’t have MJ.”

“Yes, you do,” Harry scoffed, knowing he had hit a sensitive place.

Strange that Harry, his friend for so many years, could make him angrier than anyone else. Dropping Harry’s wrists, Peter wrenched the syringe from Harry’s hand and snapped it in two, so that the liquid splashed against the bare boards of the garret. He threw the broken thing violently into the corner. “MJ’s in love with me, but I can’t have her,” Peter said bitterly, taking two steps backwards towards the door.

“Why not?” Harry looked honestly bewildered.

Peter seized the rack of serum vials and threw it down with a satisfying crash into the sink. “Because I’m gay.” Turning his back, he walked to the door. He stopped and spoke without looking at Harry. “I know you still have the formula. I can’t stop you from making more of that stuff. But just remember that your father didn’t mean to be a monster. You have a choice: you can become the monster he became by accident, or you can run his company and make something good out of it. I guess it all depends on how you want to remember him. But don’t throw your life away so you can hurt me.”

He walked through the door into the living room and hesitated. All was silent in the garret behind him. Even though he hadn’t killed Norman, Peter felt as guilty as if he had. He had spent hours wondering what he could have done differently, whether his actions had led to that death. Peter figured that Harry would want him to leave, but he had planned to ask for the loan of some clothes so that he wouldn’t have to wear his torn spider-suit. It was better to just leave quietly. Maybe later, when they’d both had a chance to think, he could work things out with Harry.

Peter started up the stairs to Harry’s bedroom to get his suit. To his surprise, he heard Harry come slowly through the mirrored door. He hadn’t thought that Harry would want to talk to him again.

“You’re gay?” Harry asked. He looked pale, and he walked unsteadily, supporting himself with one hand against the wall. “When did you know?”

Peter looked down. This was difficult, but he supposed he owed Harry an honest answer. “I sort of always knew, but I didn’t think about it. I really knew that night when you threw me off the dock.” He looked up and met Harry’s eyes. “What about you?”

Without warning, Harry’s serious face broke into a broad grin. He snorted and laughed derisively, shaking his head. “I’m not gay.”

Adrenaline hit Peter’s stomach like a glass of cold water. “You’re not? But you…you kissed me.”

Harry laughed indulgently and held his hands out, palms up. “That doesn’t mean I’m gay. It just means I wanted to kiss you. I didn’t know you’d take it so seriously.”

Peter felt a blush rise from his neck to his temples. He didn’t care how torn that suit was, he was getting out of here now. He walked towards the bedroom, trying not to bolt up the stairs.

“Where are you going?” Harry asked, as if surprised.

The spider-suit hung over a chair where Peter had left it after his shower. Picking it up, he noted with distaste that the upper portion was stiff with his own blood. He undid the tie on his robe and held the suit out in front of him to step into it. His spider-sense trilled when Harry walked into the room and came up behind him. Peter pivoted to face him. When Harry put out a hand to touch his cheek, Peter took a step back.

“What are you trying to do to me, Harry?” he asked, his voice low and hoarse. He was tired and frustrated and half hard just from looking at Harry standing there. But it had all been a cheat, a joke. That kiss had made Peter face something profound about himself, but it had meant nothing to Harry.

“I know you want to be with me,” Harry said, looking down the front of Peter’s body where his robe had parted.

Peter was so mad he was hardly even embarrassed. “Yeah,” he said, “but I’m leaving anyway.”

“Then you’re a fool,” said Harry.

“I’d be a bigger fool to stay,” Peter shot back.

“Coward.”

Peter couldn’t think of any answer that didn’t involve a punch to the face. “Shut up, Harry,” he said, turning away.

“Clever comeback,” Harry said sardonically, moving closer. “And here I thought we could talk a while, exchange some witty dialogue. I thought—”

Still talking, Harry laid a hand on Peter’s arm. It was too much. Peter spun around and grabbed him by the shoulders, intending to push him away. But before he knew what had happened, his mouth was pressed against Harry’s open mouth, and Harry’s hands were holding tightly to his upper arms, digging into his wounds. Peter didn’t care. The pain was all that seemed to be holding him to this earth. Without it he thought he might fly up and hit the ceiling, go right through it, maybe end up in orbit. What he was doing was crazy, it was reckless, but he was doing it anyway.

Peter’s hands moved to Harry’s back, rubbing up the length of it to his neck, holding Harry’s head with its tousled curls in both eager, greedy hands. Peter was going to have this, had to have it. Surely this thing he needed wouldn’t elude him again.

Harry’s hands had wandered inside Peter’s robe to hold his waist, then to cup his ass. Peter was fully hard, pressed up against the soft material of Harry’s sweatpants. Some part of his brain kept telling him he didn’t know what he was doing, but he did. It was just like making love to MJ except that this was the way it was supposed to be. Instead of feeling doubtful and timid, Peter felt powerful, driven. It didn’t matter that Harry hated and blamed him. It only mattered that Harry’s tongue was in his mouth, Harry’s hand was stroking his back.

Harry pulled his mouth away but Peter went after it voraciously. “Peter,” Harry breathed, laughing, “you’re an animal, Peter. Don’t you want to hit me again? I want you to.”

It took a second for Peter to understand what he was being asked. “No,” he said, shocked. “I can’t do that. Why would you want me to do that?”

Harry shoved Peter’s robe down to his elbows so that his arms were trapped at his sides. Stepping back quickly, he swung at Peter’s face with the back of his hand. His knuckles glanced off Peter’s cheek as he leaned back out of the way. Harry overbalanced and started to fall forward as Peter disentangled his hands from the robe. Catching Harry as he fell, Peter threw him down on the bed and stood looking at him, wiping blood out of the corner of his mouth.

“Why do you want to make me mad?” Peter asked, fighting his deep revulsion. He picked up his robe from the floor and put it on, tying the sash tightly. “Why do you want me to hurt you?”

“I deserve it,” Harry said thickly.

A wave of male pheromones reached Peter and he shook his head to clear it. He didn’t understand any of this. “What do you want from me, Harry?” he asked again. He was exhausted and he needed to go home and sleep, kiss off his classes, sleep until the world made some sense again. “I have to go home,” he said.

“Don’t go.” Harry was looking at him wide-eyed, suddenly desperate to keep him there.

Peter felt drained, exhausted, and horribly frustrated. “Harry…” He trailed off, overwhelmed by his feelings, and yet not finding any words to express them. “Forget it.” He turned away.

“Why are you leaving?” Harry sounded lost, confused. He stood and walked after Peter, trailing in his footsteps. When Peter turned to face him they were almost nose to nose.

“Why do you keep trying to hit me?” Peter asked, irritated. “Why do you want me to hit you?”

“It’s a great compliment, being hit,” Harry said defensively. “When my father hit me, that was the only time I knew he really saw me. It was the only time I had all his attention.” He looked squarely into Peter’s eyes. “It made me feel like I existed.”

A silence fell between them. Peter’s mind reeled with what his friend had just told him. Norman Osborn had been a much worse father than Peter had ever known. He had left a legacy of treachery that was weaving a web around Harry, trapping him into the same weary cycle of greed and violence that Norman had lived by—first in the corporate world, and then, with no restraints at all, as the green Goblin. Harry had been Peter’s friend his whole life, and had stood by him through all sorts of troubles. Now that he was drugged and damaged, now that his father’s ghost had made him feel that his life was not worth living, was Peter going to abandon him?   Harry was crazy—his mind had been altered and he kept lashing out, trying to hurt Peter, and he had, but Peter knew he was strong enough to take it. Wasn’t that part of being Spider-man? Peter’s mistake had not been in sticking with Harry, but in putting his own needs first. This wasn’t about him. It was about helping Harry. He put his hands on Harry’s shoulders and squeezed, looking into his eyes. He knew he couldn’t trust Harry, that Harry might hurt him again. It didn’t matter.

All his life, Peter had trusted others to be good to him, and mostly they hadn’t been. He sometimes wondered why this was so, why it was so ridiculously easy for him to open his heart, so pathetically hard for him to close it. Perhaps it was because at the start of his life others had opened their hearts to him. When his parents died, Peter was too young to remember, but he had always felt an overwhelming gratitude towards Uncle Ben and Aunt May for taking him in, and he had never ceased paying the world back for that great kindness, usually without any reward.

“Harry….” he said. But words didn’t mean anything when he saw the relief in Harry’s eyes. Slowly, Peter leaned forward and kissed him. Harry moved closer, running his hands around Peter’s shoulders, kissing his collarbone and throat. Peter took a deep breath and placed a hand against Harry’s cheek as Harry licked up Peter’s neck to his ear. Peter gasped when Harry’s tongue traced the shape of his ear and pushed deeper inside. He took Harry’s shoulders into his hands and caressed them, moving around to touch his back, to feel the thin shoulder blades move under the skin. With a jolt of excitement, he felt Harry reach in front of him and untie his robe. He let it drop off his shoulders to the floor, and then, heart pounding, he tucked his fingertips into the elastic of Harry’s sweatpants and tugged them down. They dropped and Harry stepped out of them. At last, Peter was holding a naked man in his arms, and it felt just as he had thought it would.

Where MJ was all curves and softness, Harry was hardness and sharp angles: muscles that rippled in chest and back when he moved, hands that touched firmly and gripped hard as they searched blindly over Peter’s body, the hot hardness of his sex, trapped between them, that left its slick trail on Peter’s belly. MJ wanted words during sex, but Harry spoke with his eyes, his hands and mouth, the motion of his hips. They were alike, two of a kind, struggling to be one.

Pulling Harry close, Peter embraced him, pressed their lips together hard as he pushed his tongue into Harry’s mouth and touched him inside. This kind of kissing was still new to Peter, and he loved the intimacy of it, the closeness of two mouths each devouring the other. It was a dance of tongues, a dance of bodies, as intense as their battle in the New York skies scant hours before. The more they kissed, the more certain Peter became that this was where he belonged. No matter how uncertain things were with Harry, Peter now knew that he was gay. After all those years of feeling out of joint, wondering if he were undersexed or abnormal, now he knew that he could take pleasure in making love, that it could feel natural and unforced.

As Harry grew more heated, more passionate in his arms, Peter almost let himself believe that things would be all right this time, that Harry wouldn’t stop and say or do some unimaginably cruel thing, but he couldn’t help being a little bit afraid. Startled for a moment when Harry took a step back, Peter realized that Harry was urging him to lie on the bed. As Harry lay back, Peter let himself be pulled down on top. Harry’s skin was against his, and the scent of him went right to Peter’s head. Their erections were pressed together now, tight and slick between their bodies. He moved his hips instinctively, overwhelmed by happiness, by pleasure, by the improbable chance at intimacy he had been granted.

Peter felt Harry’s hands move down his sides. Taking Peter’s wrists, Harry raised Peter’s hands above his head and broke off their kiss. “Peter,” he said urgently, “hold my hands down. I want you to.”

Peter was startled. “Why?”

Harry smiled. “So I can’t hit you again.”

Holding Harry’s wrists against the mattress, Peter felt him struggle, and he almost let go until he heard Harry moan with excitement, felt him rock his pelvis to rub himself against Peter. Then he understood. Peter held on tighter, and Harry closed his eyes and sighed, moving urgently under him. But Peter didn’t like it. He realized that he wanted Harry’s arms around him, holding him. It did not move him to be stronger than Harry, to hold fast against his struggles. He loosened his grip and ran his hands down Harry’s arms to the elbow.

“God, Pete, no, don’t stop!” Harry cried, panicking. Peter grabbed his wrists hard and Harry convulsed with pleasure, crying out as he came. Peter held him that way until Harry’s movement ceased and let go as soon as he could. Harry slipped a hand between their bodies. “Sorry, I couldn’t stop,” he said, taking Peter’s erection in one hand and rubbing it slowly. “What do you need?”

“Hold me,” Peter whispered, moving himself through Harry’s hand.

“Hold you?” Harry’s voice might have held a hint of sarcasm, but Peter was so close, so overwhelmed by emotion, by the feel and the scent of Harry’s skin, that he refused to hear it.

“Put your arms around me,” he said, burying his face in Harry’s neck and starting to move faster. He pulled Harry’s hand off his erection and directed it behind him. Slowly, Harry’s hands moved to his waist and up his back, tightening around him. One hand slid up to the back of Peter’s neck and into his hair, cradling his head as he moved against Harry’s body. It was so close to tenderness, so much like the tenderness it might actually have been, so close to what Peter needed, that he gave up, let go of all control.

“Harry,” Peter breathed. “Oh, Harry,” he cried.

Peter could have died in that long moment of bliss, almost felt that he had died, so that when he came back to the world he was different somehow—better, happier, more himself.

The contentment that followed his orgasm was too all-encompassing to keep unspoken. “Harry,” he said, rising to his elbows and reaching out to touch Harry’s face, “Harry, that was—”

But Harry was wide-eyed, looking past Peter’s shoulder in horror at something he held in his hand. “Why did you do that?” he asked angrily. “It’s disgusting.”

“Do what? What did I—” Peter turned and saw the sticky filaments in Harry’s hand. This had only happened to him once before, that first time with MJ. When he had let go and started to orgasm, he had lost control of his spinarettes. Harry grabbed his wrist and looked hard at the star-shaped shadow there.

“You’re him. You’re the bug,” he said, as if realizing it for the first time. “I thought I could trust you.” He pushed at Peter’s chest, and Peter rose off him, sitting back awkwardly on the bed.

“You _can_ trust me, Harry. I’m here for you. I’m sorry if I—”

Harry stood and glared down at him. “I can’t believe I let you touch me. Get out.”

Harry looked furious, implacable. He picked his sweatpants up from the floor and wiped his hand over and over, a look of disgust on his face.

“Harry, look,” Peter said, starting towards him, “it’s just a little webbing. I can help you—”

“Get out!” Harry screamed, taking a step back. Peter would rather have been hit a thousand times over than to see that look of hatred and revulsion on Harry’s face. Without another word, he put on his spider-suit and left through the living room by the balcony doors.

****

It was cold out over the harbor, and Peter’s suit was torn, leaving his shoulders almost bare in the wind. The city lights twinkled, but the harbor water was dark, as it should be.

All night Peter had watched the water turn from black to gunmetal grey as the first light of dawn appeared at the horizon, touching the flat Jersey shore with rose and gold. All night he had watched and thought as he tossed the Green Goblin’s armored suit into the deep water piece by piece.

Only a few pieces remained in the bag of webbing hanging at his side. He pulled out a forearm cover with its razor-sharp protrusions and dropped it down. It made a tiny splash, hardly distinguishable from the chop on the water’s surface. Now only the mask remained.

The edge of the sun’s disk broke over the horizon, sending a path of warm yellow light across the land to the water below Peter’s feet. Soon MJ would awaken and Peter would go to her, and he would tell her the thing that would break her heart. She would cry, and she would throw him out. He would go back to his apartment and shower and shave and go to class as if nothing had happened. But things would be different forever.

Peter guessed that finding someone to love was a lot harder than he’d ever known. MJ had always been his angel, but she wanted something from him that he just couldn’t give. Harry, too, had wanted something. All Peter had to offer each of them was himself, just as he was, and somehow that wasn’t enough. The three of them had always been all mixed up together. Their lives were a tattered web, like this one he rested on. Peter loved them both, but he was suspended between them, hanging in thin air balanced over a void.

MJ and Harry had needs, strong needs, but what about Peter’s? Would he ever find what he was looking for? Each time he learned a truth about himself, it seemed to separate him further from the people he loved. His heart was full of love, his hands were open, but nothing seemed to fit. There was no place for him. He was different, apart.

And he had a mission in the world. A job no one else could do.

Taking the green mask into his hands, he wrapped what was left of the webbing around it, covering the hideous face with a layer of white. The thing’s blind eyes were covered now, its teeth bared in a grotesque smile that soon would be hidden in darkness. Peter imagined it at the bottom of the harbor, half buried, its mouth full of silt. As he dropped the mask, it somersaulted, spinning until it hit the water and was gone.

Peter squinted at the sun and turned his back on it, facing the dark city. It was time to visit MJ.


End file.
